Underneath It All
by cloy
Summary: A short story I wrote about the murder of my best friend. Don't worry, it's not based on reality. Please r/r


I felt strange, stranger than I ever had before. My heart was palpitating so fast, it threatened to pump out of my chest. My shirt was soaked with crimson blood. Christine's blood. I adorned her blood like a war marking, a medal, a symbol of my deed. My eyes were strangely warm as I gazed at the limp form in front of me. There she lay, face down, with her hair matted and covering her tan visage. Her skin was turning an unusual shade of white. It almost rivaled my own pale skin. The veins in her body had long since lost warmth without blood coursing through them. I had finally done it. I could see my own reflection in the silver of the bloodied knife. My eyes looked bigger, glassier, and hollow. Yet they showed no indifference, no remorse for the horror I had committed.  
  
Her petite form was doused in blood, her own blood; Her greatest fear. I knew that if I stayed there long enough, for days and days, I would not be able to resist the urge to peak under her shirt and gaze at the traces of her ribs and counters that will form from days of malnourishment. Paranoia, Christine's paranoia would overtake her. Too bad she wasn't going to be alive to witness it. I wouldn't let her, if she was alive, to witness her own body rotting; flesh steaming and sliding off her decaying bones. I didn't want her to suffer like that.  
  
I picked up the knife, beautiful and sleek. I hadn't even bothered to wipe it off. It was still stained with sin. I didn't care. I was calm and collected. There was never any fear or doubt in my mind. I had been waiting to do this since I first laid eyes on Christine. There she was, always smiling, like she had some little secret that she wouldn't share. It drove me mad, mad with jealousy to a point where I couldn't take it anymore. But, I wasn't angry, I wasn't envious, I was happy for her; Happy for my best friend.  
  
I climbed into her still Luke-warm bed. There were tiny droplets of blood on the pillow and on the night table where she'd accidentally hit her head. I would always remember the deafening shriek she let out, as I descended upon her silently, like a shadow in the night. Her sheets were cool against my warm flesh. The soft fibers prickled my skin. I could see her body lying just below where I lay, just as I had left her. I didn't want to move her. Not yet. I was so exhausted. I just wanted to sleep. I lay there in the dark; staring at the ceiling, thinking I would go to the park tomorrow, play on the swings. Christine and I loved the swings. But it was too late now. The deed was done. My breathing soon fell in even rhythms in the night.  
  
Sunlight poured thickly into the room, making me think it was just a normal day. I could delude myself like that. I yawned and stretched my limbs in the manner of a cat. Rolling over, I gazed at my surroundings, soaking in every detail I could. I knew this was the last time I would ever see this place again: Christine's room. Christine's body lay on the floor, still untouched. It was almost perfect; unspoiled except for the slight tinge of green that had accumulated on her skin overnight. I got up and kneeled over her, fingering the dried blood that had turned a rusty color on her T-shirt. I wanted to turn her over, yet something stopped me. Instead, I used every ounce of strength I possessed to pick her up and place her in the safety of her bed.  
  
It was then that I turned and stared at her face. Her eyes had closed and her face was a ghostly shade of white. I wondering if she was a ghost right now, gazing down at my crouched-over form, pity in her sunken eyes. She was disturbingly somber. I felt no remorse or guilt. This is what I had wanted. I desired just then to paint a picture of this scene, the morning after I humoured my perverse desire for completion. There she lay, peaceful, in an eternal slumber; that same goofy smile on her face. Yes that smile, it still mocked me, leered me. Christine still wore it with pride. She was proud of her happiness, her own private victory over my ignorance. She had died happily at the hands of her closest friend. It was then that I felt something very odd jolting awake deep inside me. Perhaps it was fear, for I had no escape plan and the police were sure to come barging in at any moment. But no, it wasn't fear. It was a new emotion, probably hidden deep within the layers of my heart.  
  
The bed heaved as I sat down beside my departed friend. I held the knife in my hand and gazed in awe at how such a small instrument could cause the great river of blood that cascaded from Christine's body just the other night. Her mocking smile was mirrored in the knife. Even in death she was still laughing; laughing at her own misfortune. She always had a way of making people feel happy about everything. Perhaps that's why I envied her; I wanted to be like that. I got up and went to the bathroom. My reflection stared back at me in the mirror. I looked tired; older. My hair was messy and my eyes had bags under them. I didn't want to stare any longer.  
  
Back in Christine's room, it was silent. The silence was unnerving. I touched her skin and it seemed to scorch my fingers. It was so cold and she lay so still. I wanted to tell her to get up, to see what I'd done to her! But of course I couldn't. A deep purple bruise formed on the side of her head where she'd bumped in against the wood of her dresser. I touched it lightly and winced. Still, I felt no sorrow at the pain I'd caused her. Her lips were slightly ajar in that triumphant grin. The edges of her mouth were dry and chapped. I closed my eyes, still holding the knife in one hand. I had never let it go. I paced through the clutter of her room, observing the wisps of deep brown hair that framed her round face.  
  
I held the steel blade against my chest, feeling my heart skip as that of a rabbit's against it. I dragged my fingers along my reflection on the cold metal. I pushed it deeper into my skin, trying to feel what Christine felt that night. I roughly bit my lip to keep from crying out at the feeling as the knife pierced the soft flesh of my chest. It only bled a little. And still I pushed deeper, slower, drawing blood from my tongue as I struggled to keep from screaming. I knew where my heart lay. It was getting harder to breathe or stay conscious. I swear I could feel the blade tear the muscle of my heart. I kept trying to wake myself up, thinking it must be a dream. It was then that I felt the darkness envelope me, and I embraced it with every fiber of my being. 


End file.
